


Possession by Inches

by YourFavoriteRobot



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: Biting, M/M, Scratching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-15
Updated: 2011-06-15
Packaged: 2017-10-21 10:40:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/224280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YourFavoriteRobot/pseuds/YourFavoriteRobot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: <i>The Master enjoys being bitten, scratched, bruised, and otherwise marked. The Doctor is rather surprised to find this completely relevant to his interests.</i> From the b_e anon meme.</p>Consensual light S&M (biting, scratching and the like)
            </blockquote>





	Possession by Inches

The first time is something of a surprise. For all their public aggression, they are always supremely tender when alone together. The Doctor has wondered if their first encounter while he himself was still convalescing post-regeneration had set the tone for the current incarnation of their relationship. As it is, he loves the soft touches and making love while looking into each other's eyes, so he never had plans to complain.

This time he has managed to claim a stretch of time on his own, companion free, and there is never a moment’s doubt of where he will be spending his little holiday. It's only been a handful of days (not that such a thing matters in a TARDIS), and it feels like they must have despoiled every room of the Master's ship. It's a particularly wonderful angle that the Master has the Doctor at against a work bench that causes him to bite down hard on Master's shoulder and grip him hard enough to leave little finger-shaped bruises. The Master thrusts up into him, once, twice, and then shudders hard against his lover.

They are on the floor in each other's arms and the Doctor examines the damage, tracing a gentle finger over the red teeth marks and feeling a strange sort of pride in what he's done. "I'm sorry," he whispers, almost shyly, and kisses the mark.

"No need at all to apologise, my love." The Master answers with a breathless enthusiasm.

"I take it you enjoyed it then?" The Doctor's inquisitive eyebrow jumps and he fails to suppress a teasing smile.

"Tangible evidence upon my person of your eagerness in bed? Enjoy it? My dear, I relish it."

"Do you, now? How very interesting," he replies, smiling, and places another kiss over the bite before shifting further up his neck and sinking his teeth in experimentally. The Master groans shamelessly and the Doctor bites down harder. The Master's groan slides into something like a whimper. It is a sound the Doctor enjoys very much, so he sets to drawing it from him as often as he can over the rest of their little holiday together.

The real treat, they find, is in the next meeting. Nether man wants to be apart from the other for long after this interesting revelation, and all of the Doctor's companions think they have never seen him so happy to be captured and imprisoned. That night, being dragged to a slow, painful death in a torture chamber looks an awful lot like being somewhat roughly shoved along to the Master's bed chamber. At least there will be a plausible excuse for the screams, the Doctor thinks, as he is pushed unceremoniously through a door.

The Master has been driven to distraction whenever he caught a glimpse of an abused spot on his skin. The Doctor had worked out quickly to place many of them where the Master could see. They both took a particular liking to a vicious bite he had made to the Master’s wrist, right at the gap between sleeve and glove.

This is the first thing he seeks out. Forgoing a proper kiss, or even words, the Doctor grasps the Master’s hand and pulls it up to be inspected. Seeing that the mark had faded altogether, the Doctor’s mouth turns into a pout before he brings the healed skin back under his teeth to replace what has been lost.

The Master’s clothing is gone in an instant, shoved off his body in the Doctor's hunt for evidence of the rest of his work. The Master is on his stomach while the Doctor straddles him, running loving fingers over nail-dug lines in his lover's back. The Doctor traces his tongue over the sensitive skin and twitching muscles, following guidelines he has already laid down. The Master is delighted by the attention; the pure focus of the Doctor on him and only him, some scintilla of a possessive nature that he wishes to cultivate, or he would if he could think of anything but lips and mouth and tongue dipping lower, following the lines that ran over the small of his back.

Hands caress the curve of the Master’s arse and the Doctor places a kiss as a target and then a fearsome bite to one soft cheek. The Master yelps and bucks but the Doctor holds his hips firmly, his teeth sink in as he sucks and flicks his tongue over the spot he has chosen to assault.

The Master is mewling, helpless and revelling in it. He feels owned and claimed and wanted and needed and it is every bit as good as he imagined these feelings could be. The Doctor pulls back breathlessly, looking as his work with a pleased hum. This will last until the next time, he is sure of it. He has found a way to be with him and not, tied and free, having cake and eating it as well.

The Doctor thinks that comparisons of the Master to a decadent dessert are wonderfully apt. He laughs, bright and clear and lovely, and the Master begins to chuckle beneath him. The Doctor informs him plainly that he should very much like to fuck him; the Master smiles and consents to the arrangement.

The Doctor's hands are in the Master’s hair, or pressing fingertip bruises into his shoulders when they are not raking down his back. The Doctor grips softly, tugs gently and thrusts hard, burying himself deep into his Master. When they turn--because the Doctor wants to see him when they do this, lest he forget for even a moment who he is with and all the lovely complications that make this the best thing going in the cosmos, because he could do this with anyone but he is doing it with him and that is too important to ignore--the sheets rub against the raw streaks on the Master’s back and make him deliciously aware of each one.

The Master is still gentle. The Doctor has no need for such injurious affirmations and they both know it; the Doctor is well aware, some times painfully so, that he is still the Master’s even when they are apart. Hands touch the Doctor’s face and hair and chest and shoulders and hook around his neck, keeping him close. They are kissing when the Doctor comes with a slow long thrust, and when he pulls away he sees that he has bit the Master’s lip bloody.

When the Master kisses the Doctor, smearing red across their lips, it stings like mad and he wouldn’t trade it for the universe.

Limbs tangle. Hands stroke hot sweat-slicked skin. The Master feels as though he has been destroyed to the atom and reassembled ever so slightly better than before. The Doctor feels a blissful sort of nothing, like a summer scented breeze blowing through a mind briefly emptied of worry or responsibility. Both are exhausted and sleep as they did as children.

When the Master awakens his bed is empty, half of the sheets waded in a tangle beside him. He rolls onto his stomach, favouring his back, and simply lies there for a long while. Somewhere in the palace the Doctor is babbling and charming the people into working for him, disarming delicate equipment and reversing polarities. The Master lays there long enough to give the Doctor what he would call a sportsman-like head start, smiling and enjoying the feel of memories etched into his skin.


End file.
